


i'm a ghost and you know this

by empiremind (justlikeabaroness)



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-24 12:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14355492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/empiremind
Summary: hyojong is hung up on hui, and yan an doesn't complain. at least not out loud.





	i'm a ghost and you know this

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cupofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofstars/gifts).



> thanks, childish gambino and my best of 2012 playlist. 
> 
> "are we dating? are we fucking? are we best friends? in between that?  
> i wish we'd never fucked, and i mean that.  
> ... not really; you say the nastiest shit in bed."

It's late, and Hyojong doesn't want to go home, so he's clumsily tapping a code on Yan An's door - one knock, then two, then two more, then one, and so on. Just a little melody, but he has to be quiet, he remembers; he doesn't want to wake the neighbors. Yan An has bitchy neighbors and sometimes, a roommate. But Wooseok practically lives at Kino's house now, and Hyojong can't go home, because Hui's there, and Hyojong's a little drunk. And a little heartsick. The mere presence of his best friend in their flat never used to trigger these flights of self-hatred, but it's gotten worse.

The door opens and Yan An grabs him by the arm, pulling him bodily inside with a hissed, "What is _wrong_ with you?" even though Hyojong knows he doesn't really need an answer.

He gives one anyway, but not in words; he pulls Yan An down by his collar and kisses him, boozy smile half disappearing when he tastes the Chinese boy. Yan An always smells like green tea, stereotypically, and Hui only drinks coffee. But it will do.

And, like always, Yan An doesn't complain. He'd be within his rights to ask Hyojong how drunk he is, does he know what time it is, what the fuck is he doing, but he never says anything. Hyojong's sure he knows it would be pointless. 

They kiss, recklessly, messily, tongues and teeth and fingernails on shoulders. Sometimes Yan An forgets himself and Hyojong winds up slammed against walls, but it never bothers him much, at least not until he remembers that their first kiss was with Yan An pinning Hyojong against the back fire door of Club Global, and there's a pinprick of guilt. They'd broken up on good terms, deciding they just weren't right for each other, and they're still friends. But Hyojong has seen Yan An stare at him, and he's not pure enough to let those longing looks go when Hui ambles around his flat half-naked and tantalizing and heterosexual. And Yan An apparently isn't pure enough to push him away.

"Wooseok?" he murmurs, wrapping his legs around Yan An's skinny ass, heel pressing between the globes greedily, clinging.

"Kino's," Yan An replies, looking at Hyojong. They kiss more, angrier, biting lips and breaking skin, and Yan An says it softly. "We're not together anymore, Hyojong."

"I know." And he does. Hyojong goes back to kissing, feeling big, deft hands in his hair, trying hard not to imagine that they're Hui's.

Yan An tries to say more, but Hyojong keeps closing that door with his mouth, keeps touching the places he knows make Yan An react; one guilty knuckle running up his spine, into his soft, blond hair. One hand sneaking under the flimsy pyjama shirt to brush over slightly-too-thin hips. Yan An sighs, and Hyojong can hear the real chagrin in the noise, but there's also a weird note he's probably too drunk to identify. Regret? Annoyance? Excitement?

It doesn't matter, he decides, as Yan An kisses into the hollow of his neck, lips probably passing over the place where Hui's chin has rested during a thousand back-hugs as Hyojong's clawed fingers pull deeper into that too-cute tendril of blond hair at the back of Yan An's neck. He pulls himself tighter against Yan An, trying to let his dick take over instead of being stuck in his dreamy, drunk head with his frustrations and annoying fruitless sex dreams, and it has limited success, with Yan An cursing in Mandarin and fumbling at his jeans.

He helps Yan An with his own pants, slightly surprised he can manage to ease fingers into narrow pathways in the denim, can find the zipper to hold onto it and pull it down. It's far easier to snake deliberate fingers past the button on Yan An's boxers, much simpler to start pulling Yan An's dick free and pointedly arching his hips against it. Hyojong whines softly as Yan An's teeth graze across his collarbone, pulls Yan An's hair tighter as their cocks brush against each other. It feels familiar, and that's better than feeling adrift in a fucking sea of sadness and lust and unrequited love and yes, a tiny thread of anger.

His free hand threads between them to stroke, the way Yan An likes, though the normal desperate, grateful noises when Hyojong's fingers start to brush over his sensitive cock seem absent tonight. Still, Yan An keeps him pressed against the wall with all that wiry strength, and it is, for a second, comforting. He's safe, instead of laying his heart and brain and gut out on the table to be cut up and dissected. He's not a masochist; he promises - Hyojong just loves people who love people, and yet he's always astonished when it rebounds on him. He draws the pad of his thumb over Yan An's stiffening dick, and hears what he thinks is swearing, under his breath and fervent. 

They're suddenly no longer in the vestibule, but instead in a room Hyojong would guess is Wooseok's, because Yan An doesn't love black this much. He's suddenly on his back, suddenly breathless as Yan An's lips sink down over his cock, breathing him in like holy incense, making him moan, ragged and broken. Hyojong's hand clenches in Yan An's blond hair, and he arches his hips upward, sinuous and needy. He can hear Yan An gag slightly, and he breathes out, apologizing for it and for the arousal that noise brings. It gets him hard, to hear Yan An choke around his dick; it's so easy to transpose people - so simple to close his eyes and feel Hui's full mouth instead of Yan An's thin lips, hear Yan An's gentle, almost lyrical whimpers slow down in his drunk ears to slip into Hui's lower tone. Imagining Hui taking his cock down his throat, deep enough to gag, slow enough for Hyojong's precome to swirl across Hui's tongue - it has Hyojong moaning louder, an intense " _Jesus_ ," escaping him instead of yowling Hui's name.

Yan An doesn't stop sucking his dick, but Hyojong also feels Yan An's fingers pressing into his hips now. They're impatient, almost angry, and it's hard not to sense the individual bruises each digit is leaving even as Yan An bears down with his mouth. Hyojong's hips buck up again, and he winces at the subtle pain as Yan An grips harder. He forces himself to stop yanking at Yan An's hair, instead loosening up, stroking instead of grabbing, petting instead of pulling. Yan An slows, tongue softening, inhaling through his nose, and Hyojong would swear he can almost feel the smile as Yan An's mouth coaxes him closer to the edge, but there's an edge to that in itself.

Hyojong knows the smile isn't happy - but he still can't help but whine as Yan An's sharp nose touches near the base of his cock, and he can actually hear the slow intake of breath. He remembers how this used to go when they were together; the slow burn of an orgasm building, except Yan An smiled a lot more genuinely, and usually they'd get to this point nearer to the beginning of the evening, instead of in the secret dead of night. Hyojong remembers a lot of blowjobs with the sun shining in his eyes, giggling softly, the sun setting over them as Yan An's hair tickled his stomach and instead of whining about gagging, he'd take him deeper. All sweat and spit and choking. 

Hyojong wonders if Yan An just likes being humiliated, or if he's still in love with him, or both. 

But then Yan An slows down, taking a deep, raspy breath and swallowing him to the hilt, sucking almost too hard, and he gasps, not ready; Hyojong hasn't done the due diligence he needs to, and it just slips out along with the load, both slipping down Yan An's throat - he's mewling, almost begging, breathing, " _Hui_ ," which is exactly what he never wanted to say, because then it's real, and there are moments - this one included - where he'd give anything for it not to be. Like he can wake up from being in conspicuous, unconditional love with his best friend for six fucking years, and stop chasing shadows, though Yan An is very real. 

Hyojong feels Yan An's throat close, and his lips slip away. He looks up at the Chinese boy, and reaches for him, but Yan An steps away. 

He sits up, confused - he has to reciprocate, it's gross otherwise - but Yan An shakes his head, folding his arms, tone soft. "Don't touch me, Hyojong." 

There's a moment, two, three, four, but eventually Hyojong nods, standing up, fixing his pants. He deserves this. 

"Sleep it off," Yan An says, turning to leave the room. "Wooseok won't come home." 

Hyojong doesn't reply. He waits until he's heard Yan An's bedroom door close before rising, padding down the hall, and letting himself out. He manages to close the door without any noise as he heads on his way.

**Author's Note:**

> didn't actually mean for this to turn out angsty as all fuck; it just kinda happened. huidawn complete me, but that road, at least in my headcanons, is never going to be smooth. and yan an is an adorable baby who deserves better. maybe i'll write him a cute fluffy piece next, lol. anyway, stan pentagon. sarah made me.


End file.
